The Lady

She wept. Oh yes, she wept.
For what she would never own again.
That which she treasured
That which she coveted the most.
Her eyes were cold as ice,
but in her heart, burnt a fire,
a passion hot as the lava from a bubbling volcano.
Aching for the treasure she lost.
Lost
In her dreams,
she grasps at thin air
trying to clutch her fleeting illusion.
In day,
bright sunlight streaming through her curtains
the chinking of china as the servants bring in the tea
The desperate woman,
who screams and threshes in her sleep
who wails like a siren
who tears at her hair and face with inch long nails in her frenzy,
She becomes what she is
what she is supposed to be
once again
A Lady.
Poised, perfect.
A Lady.
Dressed immaculately.
With eyes cold as ice,
but a heart burning like fire.
A Lady.
Dressed in black.
Attending her child's funeral.